Pride
by Saru Wolfe
Summary: Christine Daae was not the first young soprano to catch the attention of the Opera Ghost. Everyone has a story. A movie-verse, drabble-ish series of back story, mostly focusing on Carlotta.
1. Leavetakings

**Disclaimer: Disclaim...**

**Author's Note: This is not about an OC of any kind. It's someone you love (or loathe). These are much more than 100 words, but they aren't exactly full chapters, either. I suppose I'm telling a story in little sporadic bursts...**

Six years before the orphaned young Christine arrived at the Opera Populaire, an argument took place. It was not the first time this particular argument had occurred, but it would be the last. In a town not too far from Paris, a girl stamped her foot defiantly. "I am going!" she shouted. Her hands, balled up into fists, were on her hips. Her lips were pursed and her eyes flashed angrily.

The woman opposite the girl held a similar pose. "How will you survive? You will not! You refuse to _think_!"

"I do not care!" With that, the girl threw another dress into her trunk, which lay open on her bed. "I was born to do this! I cannot ignore it any longer!" She searched her wardrobe for more to pack.

"It will not work. If we were back in our home country – yes. But these French – they do not know opera!"

The girl whirled to face her mother. "You do not know what you say! The French will never have the best opera, but they know how to sing!"

"Where will the money come from? How will you make your way?"

"I can live at the opera house."

"Your French is not good!"

The girl shut her suitcase with more force than was necessary. "I will learn. There. Is that your last argument, Mama? I am leaving."

She suddenly found herself trapped in an embrace. "Write me often," the woman murmured.

The girl stepped away, lifted her trunk, and grinned impishly. "I will, Mama. Ciao!"

"Ciao, Lotta. Be careful!" With a final wave, the girl was gone.


	2. Insanity

Joseph Lefevre wanted to go home. He had only been the manager of the Opera Populaire for three months, and he was already quite sure that everyone in this business was insane. Just today, for example, a horde of about fifteen girls had been found loitering outside the back door. When asked what they wanted, they had tried to communicate purely through giggling. Finally, one had said that they wanted to be in the chorus. He had reluctantly let them in, and they had all gotten up on stage at once. Their shrill, off-key singing had been punctuated by nervous laughs. This had gone on for all of about ten seconds before Reyer stood up and told them tartly to get out.

The door to Lefevre's office opened. _Speak of the devil_. "M. Reyer. What is it?"

Reyer sighed and shut the door behind him. "A girl outside wants to be in the chorus."

Lefevre let loose a few unnecessary words and collapsed, letting his head fall on the desk with a resounding thud. "Can't you just tell her to go away?"

"We should let her try out," Reyer said decisively.

Lefevre glared at the paperwork on his desk. Reyer glared at Lefevre. The manager got up with a groan. "I'm coming."

Reyer opened the door and motioned Lefevre through with a bow and a triumphant smirk.


	3. Audition

The girl standing on the stage did not look nervous; you had to give her that. She stood up straight, stressing her height, and thrust her chin out. Her voice was warm and rich, but she spoke in slow, heavily accented French. "I want to sing."

Lefevre folded his arms. "Show us what you can do," Reyer said encouragingly.

Her dark brow furrowed in concentration, but her expression cleared as she began. The song was in Italian; Lefevre didn't understand a word of it. However, she sounded a good deal more like someone in the chorus than those silly girls from earlier. Lefevre glanced over at Reyer, who was all rapt attention. That settled it. Reyer had been here as long as anyone could remember; if he liked it, then that was that. And anyway, Lefevre thought, she really did have a pleasant voice.

An incredibly high note startled the manager. She was ending the song, and – he calculated – that had to be at least a D. He scrambled for a piece of paper and a pen. When he looked up, she was watching him expectantly.

"Well…" Lefevre said. He glanced over at Reyer, who smirked and nodded. "What is your name?"

"Carlotta Giudicelli."

He wrote that down. "Welcome to the Opera Populaire, Carlotta Giudicelli."


	4. Letter

September 2nd, 1854

_Dear Mama,_

_I am part of the opera at last. When they heard me sing, they were so impressed that they accepted me right there. I am given a room, food, and a small salary. It is not extravagant, but I survive._

_I am only in the chorus now, but someday I will be the lead soprano. I want to sing solos and have the audience cheer for me. Signor Reyer says that I am not ready. He said my voice is good, but untrained. Signor Lefevre is the manager, but Reyer is in charge. He is a little man with sharp, coal-black eyes. He knows music. He has said that I will do well, because opera is in my blood._

_People here are very silly. They are so superstitious. The ballet girls are always making up ghost stories, and the boys play jokes on everyone. The other chorus girls tease me because I cannot yet speak French as well as a they, and I sing more loudly than all of them put together. They do not bother me. They are jealous; they have little, trilling voices and are ignorant of Italian._

_Sometimes I miss home, but living here is so exciting. Something is always happening! I hope you are not very lonely. Write back!_

_Love,_

_Lotta_


	5. First Encounter

Carlotta ran, no longer caring who saw her distress. What had she been thinking? She was not ready for this! She had been so confident in her own voice that she had forgotten she had no training. She had made a perfect fool of herself. Carlotta finally made it to her room, slamming the door behind her and collapsing on the bed.

The Opera Populaire was going to perform the new opera, Il Muto. The audition for the countess, the main role, had been nearly empty. The current lead soprano had been there; she sang first, and then left. Hopeful chorus girls came, but lost their nerve and ended up watching. Carlotta hadn't counted herself among them. She had a strong voice; she could out-sing the lot of them. She strode up to the stage.

"You are auditioning?" M. Lefevre asked incredulously.

"Yes." Reyer sighed and refused to look at her. Without waiting for permission, she began to sing. "Poor fool, he makes me laugh! Ah ha ha ha ha…" Her voice filled and echoed around the auditorium. However, when the time came for the high notes, her voice betrayed her. The note cracked. She flushed, but continued stubbornly. The next high note squeaked. She couldn't finish hit the phrase before she ran out of air. The whole song was falling to pieces. The chorus girls shrieked with laughter. Carlotta fled.

Now she lay on her bed, sobbing and cursing.

"Don't cry," cooed a voice.

Carlotta sat up. "Who's there?" she demanded. "Go away!" It was, after all, her room, and the voice was male.

"Calm down. I am a friend."

"I have no friends who intrude upon my bedroom!"

The voice laughed. It was a rich, deep sound. "I am the Angel of Music."

"What if I don't believe you? I have never been sent an angel before."

"Perhaps you have never needed one before," the voice said smoothly.

"I didn't get an angel when my father died," she snapped, then blushed. She hadn't meant to say that.

There was silence for a time. "Very well. Believe whatever you will, but know that I am here to help you." She folded her arms crossly. "Your voice is good, but you need a teacher – a better teacher than those that are available here."

"I will not be helped by a man's voice in my bedroom."

"You don't want to improve?" She ignored him. "As you wish. Good night." The voice seemed to be getting further away.

"Wait!" Carlotta cried. She bit her lip thoughtfully. "You will really… train me?"

"Yes."

"All right." She nodded with all the dignity she could muster, considering that her face was tear-streaked and she was talking to no one.

"Good. Do you want me to sing you to sleep?"

"No."

"Stubborn child."

"I am _not_ a child." The voice laughed again as it faded away.


	6. Lesson

Carlotta waited in the smallest, oldest chorus practice room, as the voice had instructed. She felt so foolish, doing as an unknown, disembodied voice told her. However, it wasn't long before said voice joined her.

"Show me what you can do," were its first words to her. "Warm up."

She sat down in front of the piano and placed her hands on the keys. She knew no more about a piano than was necessary to warm her voice up. She took a deep breath and plunged into the notes. She was hardly past middle C when she was interrupted.

"Open your mouth!" the voice snapped.

She did so, more out of surprise than actual eagerness to comply.

"Now try again."

She began where she had left off, and was surprised to find how much easier it was to hit higher notes now. This tutoring, she decided, might just work.


	7. French

"I don't like French," Carlotta declared, glaring at the primer (a _primer_ – how embarrassing!). "There are too many letters one doesn't pronounce."

"You may like it or detest it as you wish, but you are in France now." The Voice sounded decidedly amused at her plight.

"Who would create a language in which the last letter of every word might as well not exist?" she asked, exasperated. "It is absurd!"

"Yet you speak it rather well, considering the short amount of time you have spent here," the Voice said silkily.

She tried to resist the obvious flattery and promptly failed. "Well… I can't deny I have an ear for languages."

"Perhaps. However, it is essential that you are able to read French."

"Why?" Her tone was definitely plaintive now. "Most people here can barely write their own names, and I only need to hear it to sing any…"

"Do not argue. You _will_ learn," the Voice ordered harshly.

Carlotta threw the primer on the bed beside her and leapt to her feet. "I will not be spoken to like a baby, told what to do without reason and expected to obey! I want to know why I must learn to read this ridiculous language!"

"Sit down, and do not yell, _especially_ not at me," the Voice said menacingly.

Cowed, but determined not to show it, she sat slowly. "Fine. But…"

"Yes, yes, very well. While you could survive as you are, it is always infinitely better to be literate in any language you learn. Secondly, you will not always be able to hear a song before you sing it, so you must be able to read the lyrics."

"I understand."

"Good. Begin studying. I will bring you a more advanced primer when you prove that you have mastered that one."

Carlotta felt that the conversation was over. She waited until she was certain the Voice was gone before muttering, "I _hate_ French."


	8. Skill

"Is everyone here? Good. Elise, move over just a little to… very good. We'll begin with our regular warm-up. Quiet, girls. That means you. Go as high as you can without hurting your voice. We don't want any croakers in here. Quiet!" The woman placed her fingers on the piano keys. "Let's begin."

It was an easy exercise. The chorus girls shuffled around and made faces at their neighbors as they sang. As the keys progressed, though, they had to strain. Virtually all of them squeaked at the C, and their voices balked at anything higher than a D sharp. One voice in the back, though, advanced to an F sharp before it was forced to stop. The woman at the piano guided them back down to the lower range before stopping and turning around.

"Excellent, mademoiselle, you are getting better." She raised an eyebrow at the other chorus girls. "Perhaps you all should follow her example." The chorus girls looked down at their feet – all but Carlotta, of course. She was glowing with pride. She couldn't wait to tell the Voice.


	9. Idea

**Author's Note: Okay, so this is going to be _all_ movie-verse. I like the book-verse better, but Carlotta just doesn't get any scenes there, so it's going to have to be movie.**

Erik stalked along the empty corridors. He was _not_ sulking; he was just a mite put out. Everyone, even Reyer, went home this time of year, leaving him alone in the Opera House. He got absolutely no enjoyment out of hiding from no one.

He was startled out of his introspection (_not_ moping) by several high-pitched, off-key screams. He whirled to his left, and there, not twenty feet from him stood four quivering girls from the ballet corps. They stared at him. He glowered back.

"What are you looking at?" he growled irritably.

They screamed bloody murder and raced off. "And a happy Christmas to you, as well," he muttered, and decided it was time to be somewhere else.

_Is a little sense too much to ask for?_ he ranted in his mind. Now those ballet brats would tell all their friends that there was a demon loose in the opera house. He had observed again and again that theater people had more superstition than brains. They'd do anything to avoid the wrath of some evil spirit that only existed in their imagination….

_Ding_! went the idea.

"_Oh_," said Erik.


	10. Storytelling

Antoinette Giry stood in the center of her room with her hands on her hips, an immovable pillar in the storm of babbling, terrified girls. She ruled the ballet corps with an iron fist, but some things happen no matter how sensible and disciplined you are.

"That's enough," she said. She didn't have to raise her voice too much. "Morgaine, tell me exactly what happened. Do not embellish. I don't want a single adjective."

Morgaine Roseau, in all likelihood, didn't know what an adjective was. "My three sisters and I had to stay here for Christmas. We were going along the hallway by the prop rooms; we wanted to get up to the catwalks." Her eyes widened. "Then something appeared at the end of the hallway. It looked like a man, but it had claws and only half a man's face! Its eyes glowed with evil!" She waved her arms in the air for effect. "We screamed, and nearly fainted. It turned to face us and snarled, baring its hideous fangs! It growled in its demon language, and we ran for our very lives!" The other ballet girls began to wail.

Antoinette knew that she would never get anywhere with that. Followed by most of the ballet corps, she went into the third room down, which was shared by all the Roseau sisters. Alexandria was the only one there. She was five, and her perceptions were often much more accurate.

"Alexandria, can you tell me what you and your sisters saw over the holiday?"

"Tell her about the ghost we saw!" Morgaine cried.

The girl's brow furrowed. "When we was going to the catwalks?"

"Yes!"

"Well… Morgaine told us it was a ghost, but it looked like a man. We surprised him. Then he looked kinda mad and said, 'What are you looking at?' Then we ran."

"Alexandria!" another sister, Victoria. "That wasn't what happened at all!"

"Describe him," Antoinette said, ignoring the other sisters.

Alexandria thought about this. "He was dressed in a real nice suit. He only had half a face. He was pouting."

Antoinette sighed. That was Erik.


End file.
